


so tell me how the moonshine tastes

by hyaloid



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: F/M, chronologically organised oneshots, fast burn, i find this ship so adorable, im too impatient to write slow burn, the overarching plot is just rayllum fluff, with some mild tweaking of canon dialogue, writing style variation between oneshots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:07:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22083862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyaloid/pseuds/hyaloid
Summary: He never would have seen this coming. Not in a hundred years. She's an elf; he's not. She's an assassin; he's not. She's brave and strong and breathtakingly beautiful, and he's the furthest thing from that.But some way or another, he manages to accidentally trick her into falling in love with him.And now he knows how it feels to press rain-soaked kisses against her alabaster cheek.
Relationships: Callum/Rayla (The Dragon Prince)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 125





	so tell me how the moonshine tastes

**Author's Note:**

> so as the tags say, this is basically a bunch of oneshots all strung together into one big chapter. they are roughly chronological though, very loosely tracking callum and rayla's relationship from Flirtatious Frenemies to Getting Their Date On to Officially Established Couple.  
> ive tried to write each oneshot in a different writing style just to keep things a little more interesting (and hopefully distract from the fact that the overarching plot connecting all these oneshots together is "how do i generate more rayllum fluff")
> 
> mild disclaimer: this fic is rated T and above only because of some very very slight gore near the end. i certainly wouldnt classify it as explicit or graphic; i just mention a few body parts here and there and things get a little bit visceral.  
> but if you're very squeamish or sensitive to mentions of blood/other anatomical terms, then you may wanna skip that particular oneshot (it's the second-to-last one, which starts with "Blitzes. Shards. A fragmented odour drifting in the air, corrosive against the scent of fallen pine needles.")  
> there's also a tiny smattering of hastily cut-off swear words tossed throughout this fic. i dont spell out the swear word in full, but it's pretty obvious which curse word the character is getting at.  
> otherwise, everything should be all goods :D

It takes him a while to realise she doesn’t enjoy the water. Not a very long while, mind you, but still a while. At first, he thought she was just tired. It’s been a long few days, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t also want to collapse onto the floor of a boat and let the current do the walking for once. But then he looked a little more closely at her face, and the screwed-up frown lines where her forehead used to be, and concluded that she’s probably _not_ peacefully relaxing right now.

So he wondered, _maybe she’s sick_. Also a fair guess (he thought). Trekking through the forest tends to limit the cleanliness of what you can eat, and foraging for chewy roots doesn’t often yield the heartiest of meals. But surely, if it was something that she had eaten, then they would all be sick right now. And he and Ezran felt fine. 

Well, fine might be a bit of a strong word. Perhaps “unailed” would be more accurate. 

None of them have had a chance to bathe for several days, and they’re all starting to smell. Callum had fallen asleep with his jacket over his face the other night, and the stench he had woken himself up to was nigh on unbearable. If he could find a way to bottle that smell, he could probably make a fortune selling it as banther repellent.

Or insect killer.

Probably both, if he’s being honest. 

He hears a quiet humming by his side, and glares pointedly at Ezran’s head. More specifically, at Ezran’s hair. How he manages to keep it so glossy and clean is beyond his understanding. He pats his own hair, heavy with oil and god knows what else, and grimaces at the crumbles of dirt that come off onto his fingers.

_Dad’s was the same,_ he thinks. Harrow’s hair had always been perfect, tied neatly as it was into thick, plaited dreadlocks. Whether he was caught in the middle of a war, or chained to the claustrophobic cloisters of diplomacy, his hair and the crown that glittered on top had always remained clean and beautiful. He remembers feeling so envious about that. _Maybe it’s just genetic_ , he reasons _._

Rayla moans loudly from behind him, breaking him out of his reverie, and he turns his attention back to her. Tentatively, he touches the back of his hand to her forehead. In the split second before she swats it off, it doesn’t feel to him like she’s burning up. _Hmm. That probably means she isn’t sick_.

“Are you okay?” he finally asks. He’s given up on trying to figure it out. Honestly, his only guesses were “tired” or “sick”, and it doesn’t seem like she’s either of those.

She groans in response.

_Helpful_ , he thinks. _That really clears things up_. 

Then she dry-heaves over the side of the boat. The sudden shift in weight causes it to pitch violently to the left, and after righting itself, Rayla’s face looks distinctly more pale. 

_Oh. Oh! She’s sea-sick_.

“You’re sea-sick!” he cries.

The glare she fires his way chills his blood. 

“Okay, so you _are_ sea-sick.”

“Thank you, doofus.” The boat rocks suddenly as it hits a swirling current, and she collapses back against the side of the boat, moaning. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly a water person.”

“I haven’t really seen you in the water.” Kneeling behind her, he slings his arms under her armpits, as if preparing to throw her overboard. “Maybe now is the time to find out.”

White-knuckled fingers scramble towards the edges of the boat. Standing where he is, he can’t see her face, but he imagines it’d be comically panicked. “If you even _think_ about tossing me out of this boat,” she hisses, “I will _personally_ make sure that you’ll never be able to throw anything ever again.” She flicks her chin towards the blade handles tucked into her belt.

“You know, your threat would sound a lot more convincing if you hadn’t just thrown up about thirty seconds ago.”

She hurls another glare at him (is her face just permanently angry?) and he lets go, laughing. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry. I’ll leave you alone.”

“Thank you,” she sighs, and collapses back onto the floor. “If you really want to make it up to me, you can get me back onto dry, _unmoving_ land.”

“No can do. We need to gain distance, and this boat’s the fastest way to do it.” His tone is breezy, but his words are uncompromising. Still, she is a pitiful sight, collapsed haphazardly into a nauseous heap before him, and his heart softens. He scours the landscape around them, searching for something to distract her with.

His eyes alight on a certain grumpy glowtoad paddling forlornly in the water. “But what I can offer you are some interesting facts. Perhaps about Bait?" He points to the toad floating nearby. It grumbles in response. "For example, have you ever wondered how he got that name in the first place? It's kind of a funny story, actually.” He flashes her a wink, tilting his head to give her a better view, but she doesn’t seem to catch it. Possibly because her eyes are screwed shut.

It happened to be one of his more decent winks too, and he's mildly disappointed that it ended up going to waste.

Then he thinks about it some more and realises, her ignorance is probably a blessing in disguise. What he just said was definitely _not_ a winkable line, and if he’s going to win over a Moonshadow Elf, he’s going to need to try a lot harder than that.

_Especially_ , he ruminates, _considering where I'm starting out. I don't know a lot about elven standards, but I doubt that a sweaty dork with a penchant for bad magic is generally considered prime Casanova material._

He doesn’t say anything for a while after that. The quiet that follows rolls along pleasantly, broken only by the splashing of glowtoes in the water. _Splish. Splash. Hnnrrrg._

Closing his eyes, Callum leans back against the rim of the boat, enjoying the feeling of sunshine on his face. After all the excitement of the last few days, it’s nice to finally have some time to himself. He daydreams about fruitcakes.

Then they jolt against a rock and they spin, and Rayla gives an especially violent wet-heave over the side of the boat. There’s a pause, and then another (more violent) heave. “Kill me now,” she moans, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. “If this is all there is to life, then it’s no longer worth living.” 

Callum smiles, and pokes her on the forearm. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic.” She whips her head round and glares at him. He throws his hands up in surrender, smiling sheepishly, before they hit another rock and she's back to heaving into the water, groaning in the process.

When the boat finally stills, she hurls a thunderbolt snarl at the offending stone. 

He watches her amusedly, tracing her line of sight to the jagged rocks around them. His eyes flick down to his feet, and suddenly, he has an idea. Reaching over, he grasps the handle of the nearest oar, and carefully levers the paddle out into the air. As Rayla _flumps_ back onto the floor, he braces his back against the rim, and angles the paddle against the nearest rock, using it to push them firmly away from any protrusions in the water.

His muscles burn as they take on the weight of three people and a rowboat.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ezran tilt his head curiously, but he grits his teeth and focuses his attention back onto the oar. For a few seconds, nothing seems to happen. Rayla burps uncouthly from the floor and he has to resist the urge to laugh (though he spots Ezran giggling on the other side of the boat).

A minute or so later, however, his efforts are rewarded, and the violent rocking of the boat slowly eases into a more gentle swaying. They float down the next stretch of the river in relative stillness. He lets go of the oar and massages his triceps, stretching his arms over his head. She doesn’t say anything, but he imagines there’s gratitude in her silence. 

Leaning back against the rim, his thoughts return to fruitcakes and jelly tarts. His eyes gradually slide shut, and before he knows it, he’s dozing quietly in the morning sun. He dreams about desserts and floating mince pies.

Beside him, Rayla stirs. He doesn’t catch the half-smile that she fires his way.

* * *

“Okay, that’s the last of it.” Callum dusts his hands as he stretches in front of the fire, which blazes merrily thanks to all the prickly logs he had just thrown in. He looks over at Rayla whose knelt down beside Ezran, carefully wrapping their extra blankets around him. “How’s Ez?”

“He’s alright. About as good as you can get after diving into freezing water. He just fell asleep.” She tucks his feet tightly into the cocoon she’s swaddled around him, and joins Callum by the fire. Small sparks and embers crackle off it, and she pokes at them with a stick, swirling their ashy remains into the dirt.

“Thank you,” Callum says. “For saving him.”

She smiles sadly. “You shouldn’t thank me. It was my fault he had to jump into the water in the first place.” She runs her eyes over her left wrist, trying to force a finger between the binding that’s slowly constricting her hand. She fails, and settles for a half-hearted massage instead. It doesn’t do anything to relieve the pain, but she imagines that it brings a little colour back to her blackening fingers. “I can’t believe I dropped the egg.”

“It wasn’t your fault. The egg _is_ pretty heavy.” Callum picks up his own stick and starts swirling embers into the dirt too, digging small furroughs into the ground. He sees her rubbing her wrist and looks away, as if afraid that he’s intruding on something private. “And thank you, as well, for not letting me jump into the water. I’m not —hah— I’m not even that good of a swimmer. I don’t think I would’ve been able to swim back out.”

She doesn’t say anything, only dips a nod in his direction. Her attention focused elsewhere, she pings on a nerve in her wrist and lets out a small cry, and Callum turns back to face her, his brow furrowed in concern. “Sorry,” she mutters, and looks down.

He holds his hand out. “Can I have a look?”

She looks up, confused. “What?”

“Your hand. Can I have a look?”

“Oh. Uh, sure. Okay.” She slips her hand into his and he gently manoeuvres them closer to the fire, being mindful to avoid squeezing her binding.

He inspects her wrist carefully, turning it over slowly in his hand, almost as if he’s looking through her skin, and peering into the muscle and tendon below. The fire crackles pleasantly beside them, and even though he doesn’t do anything to relieve the tightness of the binding, she feels the pain in her wrist softly ease away.

_It’s... comforting_ , she thinks. The attention he puts into it. _It takes the edge off._ It sparks in her a feeling of kinship, of companionship. A tingling of camaraderie, like what she had once shared with Runaan and the others.

_Back when they were still alive_.

The memory of her former mentor sends a flash of grief flaring through her heart, and tears spring into her eyes.

_Back before I had failed them_.

Without her realising, her thoughts turn to sadness, dipping into the inky black pool which she had so stubbornly pushed away. Waves of mourning pulsate through her, pulling tight against the puppeteer strings of her anguish, and she feels her breath start to stick in her throat.

But then she hears Ezran, snoring quietly away in the background, and she’s reminded of the egg, and how it pulses so softly in his backpack. She shakes her head. _No. No, I won’t accomplish anything by crying. I’ll make this right. I’ll honour their memory best by returning the egg to its mother._

Callum runs his fingers over the skin of her palm, the unexpected feeling jolting her out of her thoughts, and she’s pulled back to the matter at hand. His fingers are soft and unworked, pale and very slender, playing in stark contrast to her own hardened, calloused ones. The sensation of his skin brushing against hers is unfamiliar, but not entirely unpleasant, and a blush rises to her cheeks, though she can’t explain why.

He catches her cheeks flame and stops. “Oh, sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“No, no you didn’t do anything wrong. It’s okay.”

“Oh. Okay.” He strokes her binding gently, tracing a nail over the knot. “This looks... really painful. How are you surviving with this on?”

“It’s... not as bad as it looks. The binding only tightens gradually, so it’s still sort of alright.”

He removes his other hand so that she can take her hand back, but she leaves it where it is. Since she’s put this cursed ribbon on, this has been the only time she’s felt any relief from its constricting effects, even if it is only in her head.

He seems to understand and brings his fingers back to the binding, tracing over the emblem.

“I can still feel with it, sorta. And hold things.”

“But it must really be hurting. You can’t say you can use this hand now when you’re fighting.”

“I do... tend to rely on my right hand more. I can use the wrist a bit better.”

“Yeah...” His voice trails off and he falls quiet, his eyes dropping down towards their joined hands. His fingers move unconsciously over her wrist, swirling random patterns and lines into her skin, almost as if he’s drawing a rune, or copying down a scribble from his sketchbook. _Is he even capable of sitting still?_

A silent moment passes, broken only by the hissing and popping of burning wood. Rayla’s just about to draw her hand back and suggest they go to sleep when he looks up at her, his mouth set in a resolute line. “We’ll get this off you,” he says earnestly. His eyes look so determined it’s almost comical. “I promise. I’m not going to let you lose your hand.”

She laughs mirthlessly. “I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do until we get back to Xadia. The ribbon of a Moonshadow Elf’s bindings are nearly unbreakable. There’s definitely no way that a human would be able to get it off.”

Callum frowns and looks away. “There has to be something I can do," he mutters, “even if it’s just something small.” Cupping his hands, he cradles her wrist delicately inside them, supporting it with his fingers.

Her wrist has swollen into a dark and angry bruise, lanced through with burgeoning streaks of burgundy and black, that flow down into her palm and along her thumb. Compared to the natural pallor of her fingers, the contrast is jarring and unexpected, and it twists an uneasy turn in his stomach.

_I wish I had brought Ezran’s bruising ointment along_ , he thinks. _Or at least some of his pain relief tonic._ He massages the crease of her wrist gently, watching her face for any signs of pain. He knows it’s probably useless, but it feels better than just sitting there.

She smiles. _It’s no use_. But he’s trying.

“Tell me,” Callum says, “why do Moonshadow elves do this? Tie themselves to a mission in a way that might debilitate them. Surely it would make completing the mission even harder?”

Rayla tilts her head. She remembers she had once asked the exact same question, many moons ago, back when she was first training to be an assassin. Ethari had grimaced and called Runaan into the room. _He can explain it better_ , he had said. _He’s had a lot more experience with it_.

Again, the memory of her former father sends a pang of grief through her chest, and she shakes her head. _Now is not the time_. “We don’t do it to injure ourselves. We do it to remind ourselves of the weight of our actions. As assassins, we have to kill, but we don’t do so lightly.”

She looks up into the stars, where the moon shines brightly. Its glow diffuses softly throughout the sky, lighting the clouds up beautifully, like a burnished silver coin within the silken wishing-well of night. “Moonshadow elves believe that all life is precious. The lives of our families, our friends, our _targets_ , all of them contain something which is valuable and irreplaceable inside. Even the lives of the little critters, with no language and no name, hold something unique inside of them.”

As she talks, she fiddles with a patch of grass growing beside her. She twirls a daisy between her fingers. “But we also believe that life is fragile, and delicate. It’s easily taken away. And it can be taken away by _anyone_ , human or elf or dragon, so long as they put their mind to it.

“So, it’s our responsibility as assassins to stop that from happening. It’s our _duty_. We train and fight and kill so that we can eliminate anyone who poses a possible threat, and save the lives of innocent people who don’t deserve to die.”

She looks over at Ezran, sleeping peacefully by the fire. Something twinges in her heart, and a sadness falls over her face. “When we first met, I told you that assassins don’t get to choose between right and wrong, only life and death. And in a way, that’s true. An assassin never decides who their target is going to be. That’s the job of our lawmakers, our councillors, our _elders_. We just get given a name and a face, and a binding ribbon to go alongside it.

“ _That’s_ the assassin’s code. It’s our _philosophy_ , our way of life. We paint it like it’s an irrefutable truth because it’s how we’ve done things for hundreds of years, and it’s how our ancestors managed to survive the unsurvivable hardships that they did.” She sighs. “But the truth is, it’s all just a lie. It’s just a convenient truth, to make it easier for us to take another person’s life.

“Because when you look someone in the eye, and you point the blade at their throat, and you know that all it would take is _one_ action, _one_ swift and painless movement, to end that person’s life and move on with yours... then it becomes hard to distinguish between what should be done and what needs to be.”

Tears well up in her eyes. Her hands curl into fists, bunched up inside Callum’s grip. “So, we just follow our orders, like the _pack-hounds_ we are. We listen to the code, because we wouldn’t be able to finish the job otherwise. And rather than torture ourselves with the morality of what we just did, we accept that the person we were assigned to kill was evil, and that all we were doing was restoring the natural balance of the universe.”

There’s a tearing sound as she rips out a fistful of grass. Flakefuls of earth crumble off its roots, and she tosses it into the fire, watching it hiss and burn. “It’s all one big balancing act. One carnivorous carnival show. Just as how the moon reflects the sun, so death reflects life, and we do what has to be done to preserve the safety of our people.”

She tugs at the ribbon half-heartedly. Glimmering in the firelight, its emblem winks glozily at her. “That’s why we bind ourselves. Because you can’t fulfil your duty if you can’t follow the assassin’s code. And if you can’t follow the assassin’s code, then you’ll _never_ be able to be an assassin. The binding makes sure of it.” She closes her eyes and looks away, burying her face into her shoulder.

She gives a broken sob, strangled and forcibly suppressed, and Callum’s fingers tighten ever so slightly around hers. A few minutes pass before she wipes her eyes on her sleeve and looks back at him. He returns her gaze with wide, doe-like eyes. Another minute passes before he feels confident enough to say something.

“So it’s like... a personal sacrifice? A punishment to those who fail?”

“I suppose.” She sighs and drops her hand, letting the binding go. His fingers curl loosely over her palm, and she dips her head towards him. “But I don’t think of it as a punishment. It’s more of a tradition, something tied to the culture of my people. I couldn't imagine doing a mission without it.” She smiles sadly. “Though I have to admit, it _is_ starting to feel like a punishment now.”

“I’m sorry,” Callum says. “I can’t help but feel somewhat responsible for this.”

She waves his apology aside. “Don't say sorry. It was my choice to make. I knew it would happen, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Losing my hand is a small price to pay for letting Ezran live.”

“I mean, yeah, but still, I just feel—”

“Callum, shush. I said it’s fine, so it’s fine. Let’s just drop it.” She doesn’t realise until too late how harsh her words might have sounded. She places her hand over his to soften her statement. “But I do appreciate you saying it.”

“Oh.” He tries to hide his blush. “Okay. Sorry.”

“ _Callum..._ ”

He smiles. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop.” His face turns serious again. “But I promise you, I _will_ find a way to take this off. Magically or otherwise. _Even_ if I have to go into Xadia to do it." He scratches his head. "And if I don't, well, then I guess I'll cut off my hand too. And we can be the first pair of people to ever do a high-zero together."

She can't help it. She laughs. She looks at his big goofy face, with its big goofy grin, and laughs. And it's the first _real_ , soul-lifting laugh she's had since this mission's began. "I don't believe you, you dork, but I'll accept your promise. I expect you to follow through with it though."

"Only if it's my left. That hand is pretty much expendable. If you took my right, I don’t think I’d even be able to go to the bathroom alone."

She giggles and punches him in the shoulder. "Don’t you ever think about the words that’re coming out of your mouth?"

"My spontaneity is just part of my appeal. How else do you expect me to win you over?"

_Win... me over?_

A second passes before the implications of what he just said strikes him. Instantly, heat rushes to his face and he looks away, and her hand grows hot against his skin. 

"S-sorry," Callum stammers "I didn't mean it like—"

"Nono it's okay—"

"I meant it like friends—"

"Y-Yeah it's okay I understand—"

"I mean we've only known each other for a few days so it'd be silly for me to like you—"

"Yeah it would be—"

"Right? Yeah—"

“Yeah—”

“Yeah—”

“Yeah—”

"Yeah."

An awkward silence falls over them. Rayla ducks her grin behind her hair. 

"So, uh... we should probably get some sleep now," Callum says. "It's getting pretty late."

"Yeah..." She squeezes his hand gently.

"Oh. Oh! Sorry." He lets go of her wrist and pulls his hands back, suddenly unsure about what to do with them. He eventually settles for folding them in his lap, one resting over the other like bricks. 

“You know,” Rayla says, “you look a little bit like a famous elven statue when you sit like that.”

“Oh? Which one?”

She smiles. “Well, its official name is in Elvish, but in English it would translate into the “The Peeing Monk”.”

Callum winces, and shoves his hands into his pockets. “I sincerely hope that isn’t about to become my new nickname.”

Rayla stands up and stretches slowly, pulling her arms high above her head. “Hmm, we’ll have to see. I’m quite fond of “The Sad Prince” though.” She flashes him a wink before walking over to a grassy patch and lying down, resting her head on a mossy clump. She rolls on her side to face him. "This was a nice talk, Callum."

He smiles. "Yeah. Yeah, it was."

"Goodnight, Callum."

He’s getting really tired of blushing every time she says his name. "Goodnight, Rayla."

* * *

He feels it. It’s like a pull. A deep, inexorable _pull_ , more akin to a yearning, that tugs persistently at the tips of his eyelashes, and brushes against his cheeks like saltwater. He inhales, and the presence of something alive dances into his head, something frenetic and serpentine and _electric_ , and it tastes like something bewitching, and it smells like something insane. _I want to..._ and wisps of fingers seem to drag him across the floor— _I want to go there..._

Smokescreens and snapshots flash across the back of his eyes. _He sees white, a white sheet, a white face, a white face with deep black eyes, and a cruel mouth, with wisps of fingers beckoning him forward, and silvery strings pulling at his knees._

A sound rings in his ears, a voice, distorting the pictures for just a second. Then, it fades.

_He sees smoke, he smells poison, and then the smoke clears and there is light, pinpricks of light, like bayonet wounds, like astral teeth, like a shotgun blast of shimmering stars, and wisps of fingers reaching out to grab him._

Another sound —the same sound, the same _voice_ , saying what sounds like the same thing. He feels a hand clasp onto his shoulder, and then warmth wrapping around his body. The voice rings, and he struggles against the warmth, his muscles spasming as he thrashes against this _heat_ that chains him, this sensation of another body curling around his. _The stars— I need them!_

The presence in his head tosses barbed wire into his brain, and with every tug of those fragmented fingers —those wisps of shooting stars— a new blinding pain is driven into his skull.

“Ca—!” The ringing in his ears begins to take shape. Gradually, the sounds become words, and the words become “Callum!”, and the warmth materialises into arms. The arms are lean, and muscular, and they’re arms he’s been wrapped in before, engirdling his chest like a breastplate that will not break, and he knows instinctively that they won’t let him go.

“Callum? Callum! Can you break through the spell?”

_The spell? What spell?_ And then he understands. _The eyes. The stars! Viren!_ Can he break through the tugging fingers? He finds the strength inside to shake his head.

“Are you sure? Are you really sure?”

The strength has gone. His breathing convulses. He hears a sigh, and a whispered apology. 

Then the arms release him and he is _free_ , before a force comes careening into the side of his temple, and he feels the crash of his body hitting the floor, and then everything goes black.

+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+

When he comes to, it’s to see Rayla’s face looking down at him. His head is resting in her lap and she’s gently massaging the sides of his head (one of which is, judging by the feel of things, sporting an unholy bruise). 

“What happened?” he asks.

“You were being possessed by some kind of spell. I fixed you up.”

He frowns. “How?”

“With an old elven remedy.” She holds up her blade handles and grins. “I knocked you out.”

* * *

She never thought her first kiss would be on the back of a giant camel-like monster. Then again, she never thought it would be with a human either. Then again, she never thought it would be with a human whom she had _failed to kill_ either.

Then Callum makes a noise in the back of his throat that drives all thinking from her brain, and she swings her arms around his neck. His hands alight gently on the small of her back, and when he smiles, she feels his lips curve upwards, and she smiles, and she _laughs_ , and she pulls away.

He takes a breath and so does she, and she leans in again but she can’t stop this infernal giggling, and their second kiss ends in a rather unfortunate clacking of teeth.

He knocks his forehead against hers, and something warm and bright blooms in her chest.

“Okay—”

“Shut up,” she cuts him off.

“What?”

She smiles, and knots her fingers into his scarf. “We’re having a moment. Don’t ruin it by talking.”

“I... Okay. Yeah.” Then his lips are pressed back against hers and her arms instinctively tighten, and she loses herself in a shimmering maelstrom of touch and silk and cloudy moonlight.

* * *

_It’s raining. Of course, it’s raining. Why does it have to be raining?_ Rayla groans as she trudges her feet through the mud, trying her best to ignore the cold slither of raindrops running down her back, or the fact that her boots aren’t going to be properly clean for weeks after this. Many years ago, she had learnt the hard way what happens if you let dirt stay in your clothes for too long. That was one bug-infested Friday she’d be happy to forget.

“Rayla!” she hears someone call out behind her. “Could you slow down a little?”

She groans. "Callum, we need to meet up with the others by sunset tomorrow. If we don't keep moving, we won't make it in time."

A gasp. "They know we're travelling on foot. They'll—" he’s suddenly besieged by a fit of panting, "they'll understand. No one expected the weather to be this bad."

She turns around, ready to inform him that, _honestly_ , this weather really isn't too bad, and if he’s willing to tough out a little bit of cold and rain right now, then she’ll indulge him in as many _shared_ baths as he could possibly want later. Then her eyes catch sight of him, and something in her heart softens.

The poor boy is soaked to the bone, with his hair plastered flat against his forehead, and his legs shaking violently with every step. As he walks, his satchel bangs harshly against his hips, and even from this distance she can hear his breathless wheezing as he tries to keep up.

_Just how unfit is he_ , she thinks. Nevertheless, she walks back towards him, and unslings his satchel from his shoulder. He grins at her in relief, and she feels a lightning bolt leap inside her chest.

"Does this mean we're stopping for a break?"

She punches him affectionately on the shoulder and brushes his fringe out of his eyes. _He needs to get a haircut, and soon._ "Well, given how you can barely stand, and the next two kilometres of our trip is pretty much all uphill, I'd say we don't really have much of a choice."

He nearly collapses into her. As it stands, he only half-collapses into her, and she staggers under the sudden weight pressing on her left side. "Oh, bless you. Bless you, Rayla. You're the best girlfriend a guy could ask for." He presses rain-soaked kisses to her cheek and she laughs, pushing him away.

"Oh, so you have enough energy to make out, but not enough to keep walking? I may have to reconsider my decision..."

"No!" He pulls away suddenly, his face contorted into a grimace of panic. He throws his arms up in surrender. "Nono, no reconsidering necessary. I am _very_ tired." He points somewhere to their right. "I think I saw some nice caves over there. Let's not hang around in the rain." Hugging his sketchbook to his chest, he hurriedly sets off, as if trying to run away from her affected indecision.

Only a few seconds pass before she helps a yelp and a _sqrrrt_ , as his leg sinks into what she presumes is a mud puddle (they’re treacherously common in this part of Xadia), and his silhouette lurches dangerously to one side. The resulting slew of colourful curses are amusing to say the least; the frantic tugging and grunting that follows even more so.

She rubs her rain-soaked cheek gently, trying her best to hold in her laughter. _He’s such a dork_ , she thinks. _I don’t know how he managed to figure out the sky arcanum_. Then, hoisting the satchel higher up onto her shoulder, she jogs over to help him, before he inevitably ends up making the situation worse.

“Aw damn, these were my favourite socks too,” he complains.

“You have a pair of favourite socks?”

“They have little glow toads on them. Like little Baits. I think they’re cute.”

She side-eyes him. In all his flailing and arm-wheeling, she’s not sure if he notices, but he does throw her a bashful grin. “Trust me, once I get these socks cleaned up, I’ll show you what I mean. You’ll absolutely adore them.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” She wraps an arm around his stuck leg, bracing herself on the ground with her other hand. “Okay, I’m going to pull on three, okay? You ready?”

“Mhm.”

“Okay. One. Two. Three!”

_Sqlllch! Sqrrrrt!_ “Ah, motherfuc—!”

How someone manages to, upon freeing one foot, get their _other_ foot stuck into a different mud puddle is beyond her understanding. But the peals of laughter she can’t help but let out does little to brighten his sour expression.

* * *

Blitzes. Shards. A fragmented odour drifting in the air, corrosive against the scent of fallen pine needles. He tastes the bitter taste of a fragrance that’s too sweet and recoils, curling and uncurling his tightened fists.

_This... this isn’t right_.

His tongue feels heavy. He drags it along the roof of his mouth, swallowing down thickly the fragmented air. Overhead, the sky is dark. _Something definitely isn’t right._

He knows he shouldn’t be afraid. Nothing has changed. The nighttime is just day, only with a different ambience. But the clouds above are dense, and tinted with colour, scattering moonlight between the stars. And the odour... _the odour_. Bitter, but sweet. Like flowers freckled with poison. Bouquets bristling with barbiturates. It smells like nature, if nature’s backbone had been broken.

(Two _crunches_ in the distance. Eerie and off-sync. Like boot soles tamping down dirt.) 

It’s light, and delicate. Grainy, and inconsistent. It wafts against him in waves. Almost like a pulse. A heartbeat.

(There is the gentle rustle of fabric. The _cracking_ of a twig underfoot).

But he can’t place the odour. It’s foreign and disconcerting. It smells like ancient dangers, tastes like folkloric evils. Its awakens some primal circuitry buried deep inside his brain.

(Brushstrokes. Backflips. A pair of hard-soled boots gliding ever closer).

He steels himself, and inhales deeply. _I must know what this is_. The inhale does not come easily. The odour is unnatural, and unflinching. It strikes him _sharply_ across the cheekbones and he winces. But as it circulates inside his skull, it reveals itself, and he slowly begins to tease apart its abstracted components.

_Flowers. And swordsteel._

His brain is steeped in the earthy bloom of melodaisies, and the acerbic bite of rusted iron. There is the acidic tang of saline, and the molten sizzle of paganic lightning.

_Water. And soot_.

He smells the stagnant reek of diseased riverwater, heavy with lichen and mottled fishscales, and the acrid aroma of ashy fireplaces. A second inhale yields the scent of oranges, and a third produces gunpowder; an entropic flutter of fusillades, a molotov mixture of citrus-soaked carnations.

In the forefront twinges the musky petrichor of thunderstorms. In the background, the cloying sweetness of honeywine.

Scents and sensations, fragrances and fragmentations, flower into fruition behind his eyeballs. Individually, they are benign, but together they are abnormal, swirling together as immiscible fluids.

_These smells don’t belong together._

_Something... something isn’t right_.

In the twinge of honeywine, he detects humanity. In the bloom of melodaisies, he senses Xadia.

Human and Xadian odours, hurtling together as one.

He inhales again, and his heart plummets.

He smells death. He smells the chthonic coilings of magic. 

And suddenly, he realises.

_Dark— Dark magic! This is dark magic—_

(A final _crunch_.) There is a smirk. An incantation. And then the flash of distorted light, and Callum is thrown into a milky void.

+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+

The pain is intense. It crackles underneath his skin, rippling through his muscles like spearthrusts, lancing through his shoulders like bulletfire. His body feels hot, red and frothing, and his heart vibrates powerfully in his ears, beating along to the rhythm of an epileptic staccato.

_oh god. what is this?_

Bile spurts up inside his throat. Nausea surges into his mouth. There is the taste of horrendous bitterness spilling out from between his lips, and the smell of dizzying sweetness swirling inside his nostrils.

_help... please help me_ …

(vaguely, he registers the sound of his own screams. he hears a quiet chuckle, and the pain intensifies). 

His muscles swell with liquid. They bulge inside his body. He feels them stretch against his skin, as if his arteries were flowing with too much fluid, or his bloodstream contaminated with too much protein. A tearing pain hisses along the surface of his skin, splitting it apart at the seams, and there is the metallic taste of bulletwounds billowing from between his teeth.

(high in the treetops, there is a rhythmic _whumpwhumpwhump_ , almost as if someone was leaping between them).

He squeezes his eyes shut. He tries to force his mind to focus on something else, distract himself from the serpentstrike ripples lancing throughout his body. But the pain is pervasive, and insistent. It tugs relentlessly at the curves of his irises, howls depravities against the shell of his ear.

Shadowy fingers snake around his torso and he feels his backbone fold, his body crunch, his vertebrae disintegrate into a broken stack of thunderbones and knucklebursts.

_oh please no..._

Fire and sinew and star roil beneath his shoulderblades, twisting around his ribcage. A second passes and then they squeeze, and his anoxic lungs collapse into haemorrhagic heaps. He loses the breath to scream.

His legs begin to tingle.

o _h god..._

They begin to twitch.

_oh god no..._

He hears a _snicker_ , and then his kneecaps burst, and a soundless cry is torn from his lips.

_oh my go—!_

Cannonballs and crossfires, depth charges and dreadnoughts, ricochet inside his thighs. A smouldering crosshair is tattooed into the cartilage of his anklebones, and hairline fractures spiderweb across the surface of his toenails.

_enough! p-please! no more..._

(there is a shout. a grunt. he dimly registers the _shing_ of metal sliding against metal, and the _cracking_ of branches and tree trunks. _callum!_ there is another shout, a string of words, and then a _gurgle_ , wet and shuddering, that pierces through the cobalt air.

suddenly, the pain stops. his prayers trail off, and his muscles relax. he barely has time to open his eyes before he falls to the ground, and everything goes black).

+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+

When he comes to, it’s to find himself slumped against a tree. His chest feels tight and his joints are aching, but the sensation of cool air swirling within his throat brings an almost analgesic sense of relief. _I’m breathing. I’m alive. Oh, thank god._

Patting himself frantically, he’s amazed to find himself in one piece. _The pain... the breaking. It was all just... all just in my head_. His fingers linger on his shoulders, gently probing the coils of muscle and bone. He tenses his shoulders and feels them tighten to attention, crowding up against his neck. _Okay. It seems... it seems I’m okay_.

He hears a rustle behind him. He hears the scuffing of boots on dirt. _That must be Rayla. She must’ve saved me._ He pauses. _Or at least, I hope she did. I’ll just rest here and wait for her._

He tilts his chin upwards and stares at the sky. The full moon shines, alabaster white against the craggy clouds, pinioned against the heavens like a celestial sundial. _Rayla looks pretty in the moonlight. Her hair sparkles_.

As he watches, a comet arcs across the sky, stretching a spidersilk tightrope between the stars. Slivers of stardust and droplets of moonshine bead off of it, dripping down slowly to the earth. He wonders what it would taste like. _Probably awful, if I'm being honest. And it'd probably kill me._

There’s a _crunch_ behind him. He twists his neck stiffly, searching for the telltale sign of silver hair.

He's not disappointed. Rayla kneels down beside him, hooking her blade handles onto her belt. Wrapping her arms around his chest, she clutches him tightly to her bosom, pressing her lips into his hair. “Are you okay?” she murmurs, “are you alright? I didn’t know if I had got him in time.”

“Arm okeff,” he replies, muffled against her shirt. She laughs and lets him go. “I’m okay,” he repeats.

“Good. That’s good.” Her fingers linger on his chin. “I’m glad.”

He smiles. A wave of fatigue washes over him and he rests his head against the tree, looking tiredly at her. “You’re my hero," he whispers, "my favourite person. I’m so relieved you came.”

Backlit against the stars, he can see the heat flush throughout her neck. She looks down at her knees. “Well, I wasn’t going to let you die.”

“Even so, you’re still my favourite.”

Her smile is warm, and his breath hitches. She knocks her forehead against his. “I’m glad. Thank you for saying that.”

He presses a kiss to her mouth. “I meant it. And you’re absolutely welcome.”

* * *

The inn that they’re staying in is horrifically cold. Icy winter winds screech through the trees outside, swirling into the room through the floorboards and walls. Callum shivers in his bed. He _knew_ he should have saved up for a better room instead of splurging on those fancy-looking breadsticks.

_They did taste delicious though_ , he smiles. _And the wheat was imported from Duren!_

Nevertheless, their golden-brown crusting isn't doing him any good now, and he curls into a ball, shivering uncontrollably. He pulls the duvet tighter around his body, stretching it so close its almost like a second skin. But the blanket is thin and worn-through, and cold air still manages to snake its way into his bed, shedding ice crystals over his ribcage and crystallising the tips of his toes.

From the other side of the room, he hears Rayla suck in a shuddering breath.

“It’s cold, don’t you think?” he asks.

“Absolutely freezing. This building must be ancient.”

“Do you think we could light a fire? I think I saw a fireplace.”

“They’ve run out of firewood. And there’s no way you’re gonna convince me to go outside in this weather.”

Callum sighs, sinking back into the mattress. He closes his eyes and tries to sleep, but the chill is pervading and invasive, and it keeps him awake like some horrible insomniatic illness.

Thrusting his hand out of the duvet, he feels around blindly in the dark, searching for the extra jacket he remembers throwing onto the nightstand. He knows he had tossed it _somewhere_ nearby, but whether it was within arm’s reach or not is a different story.

After a few swear-laden seconds of unsuccessful groping, he finally feels something like soft fabric beneath his fingertips, and pulls it into his bed. _Maybe now I’ll be able to feel my toes._

It isn’t until he’s tucked himself back into the paltry cocoon of his duvet that he realises he had grabbed the wrong item. Instead of a jacket, his fingers had knotted around his scarf, which he draped carelessly over the back of a chair. _Well, it’s not ideal, but I guess it’ll do._

He runs the scarf lightly through his hands, feeling its rich texture slide across his palms. The sensation of thick velvet brings back sudden memories, of sunlit days hurling snowballs at Ezran, and (short-lived) hide and seek games with Bait.

It reminds him of his mother (who had bought him the scarf on a beautiful spring morning), and of his father (who had so often considered buying a similar one to match).

He takes a deep breath, and imagines the smell of pine needles and snowflakes, a rich stinging fragrance of diamond-white wintertimes, when the lakes would freeze over into porcelain dinner plates, and the leaves crystallise into sawtoothed butter knives.

He takes another breath and the snowy pictures disintegrate into sunbeams, as he recalls memories of sweltering summer days, when the air was almost always too moist, and his skin almost always too wet. 

Across the room, he hears Rayla tossing in her bed. The last few days have been rough on them, with far too much running and jumping and screaming, and her legs are covered in bruises.

A long ugly scar wriggles along her right side (courtesy of a would-be poacher who had mistaken Zym for a rare frog), running from just under her ribcage to the upper half of her right hip. He pales at the thought of it. Those weeks of tending to her infections and fever dreams are one he never wants to live again. 

As if weighed down by his thoughts, the scarf suddenly feels heavy in his hands. He loops it around his fists, and remembers the day that he had first given it to Rayla.

He can still hear the roars of Sol Regem echoing in his ears, and the silty smell of desert dirt filling his nostrils. His wrist trembles, and he recalls how his fumbling fingers had looped the scarf around her neck (and sent her off to die a death that ultimately should have been his).

He remembers seeing her leap from rock to rock, narrowly avoiding dragontalon and dragonfire and dragonfury, and how his heart had thumped powerfully in his throat, and how his fingers had fidgeted agitatedly around Zym’s scaly belly.

Sprays of stone and shatters of dust had enveloped her body, and there was the skidding of boots as she had stumbled —only once— against the uneven terrain, lurching dangerously forward onto the balls of her feet, and the feeling of sudden, unslakeable dryness in his mouth.

He remembers seeing her be buried under an avalanche of rocks, and how everything had seemed hopeless for just a second.

He remembers them escaping by the breadth of a hair.

He remembers being in awe of just how brave and strong and beautiful she could be.

He hears another shuddering breath, and realises just how cold tonight really is.

Bundling the scarf loosely in his hands, he slips quietly out of his bed. The icy air swirls around his legs, huddling inside his bones, and he pads softly across the room, navigating around their bags towards her bed. She hears him coming and turns to face him. 

"Callum, what're you doing? Get back to bed, it's freezing."

He reaches her bedside and kneels beside her. Unwrapping his scarf, he winds it loosely around her neck, tucking the tail ends into its folds. She cocks her head in confusion but lets him finish, smiling gently as his fingers brush delicately across her jaw. _Are all mages this weird?_

When he’s done, he kisses her cheek, and leans his forehead against hers. "I love you," he whispers.

She blushes and reaches out a hand to cup his cheek. "I love you too. Where’d this come from?"

"Nowhere. I was just thinking about Sol Regem, and then I felt like doing this."

"Thinking about a cranky old dragon gets you in the mood to be romantic?" Her lips curl into a smirk, and she presses a kiss against his mouth. "I shouldn’t even be surprised by this point."

He tilts his head to the side, closing his eyes briefly as she cards her fingers through his hair. “You really shouldn’t. I would’ve expected better from a member of the Dragon Guard.”

"Hah. Don’t be rude." She pulls back her duvet, trying to resist the shiver that racks suddenly along her ribs. In the moonlight, her legs look infinitely long and infinitely slender, and Callum’s cheeks flame. "Now are you going to get into the bed or not?”

He gives her his best wink. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“You know winking’s only supposed to use one eye, right?”

“You shush. Your hurtful sass is not appreciated.” He hopes she doesn’t catch the hastily-hidden grin that flashes across his face.

(she does)

Crawling under her duvet, he slowly arranges himself into a comfortable position. His brow rests somewhere along her jawline and his lips somewhere along her throat, and as he presses kisses down her collarbone, she has to suppress the urge to giggle.

“I’m starting to think you came over here just to get into my bed,” she teases.

“What can I say?” he smiles, and nuzzles a kiss into her neck. “I’m only human.”

She wraps her arms around him and cradles his head to her chest, tangling their legs together. They hear Callum’s left hip click, and Rayla bites back a comment about arthritic old joints. ( _yeahyeah_ , Callum’ll sigh, when they hear his other hip click later that night. _laugh it up_ ).

Her fingers trail softly along his shoulderblades, swirling lines into the skin of his back, and when she rakes her nails lightly against him, an indecent moan bubbles from his lips.

He feels a fluttering behind his ribs. A _smouldering_ , of something bright, something warm and soft and beautiful, and it ticks along slowly in the stockpot of his heart. She lets out an infectious yawn and he follows suit, curling his body tighter around her. A sudden wave of drowsiness drapes over him. His eyelids start to grow heavy.

“Goodnight,” she whispers, and he presses a kiss against her sternum. 

“Goodnight...” 

She brushes his fringe from his forehead, and rests her fingers against his hair.

He closes his eyes, and falls asleep to the glorious sensation of feeling flowing back into his toes.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! if you have any comments or feedback, id love to hear them :)


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